B.O.B. - Fan Mail lyrics

[Verse 1] What’s up with this f*ggot? f** is with this n***a? Why is he still rapping? He even wears the fashion Shut us up to make him pop commercials smashes Seriously That’s why people don’t take you seriously That’s why we don’t wanna hear nothin’ you say ‘Cause you ain’t the man that you appear to be No, n***a, seriously We don’t wanna hear your conspiracies And we don’t wanna hear your political views ’bout extraterrestrial activities Look, n***a, make up your mind How much longer you gon’ wait to decide? You was kickin’ some dangerous lines Now buyin’ your sh** a waste of my time n***a, what’s up with you? That’s why all my n***as don’t f** with you And that’s why we don’t come to your after parties ‘Cause we don’t wanna hang in the club with you It’s only two types of n***as A street n***a and a you type of n***a All [?] type of n***a Prolly born with a noose, it was boom type of n***a A new type of n***a A sell out surrounded by wealth You should have been one of the greats Now you just sound like everyone else [Verse 2] Hello? Ah, what are you doin’? What are you doin’? You losin’ your cool, fan basin’ your viewers Let me show you how to flow, show you how to make music Obviously you clueless, how I know? ‘Cause I’m Jewish Oh, is that unruly? If I’ma say so, ruly What if I stand on trial? What if I stand on jury? What are we on TV? Who’s the judge? Judge Judy? What am I supposed to return all these cars and j**elry? Like I ain’t even know how the flow supposed to go Like I ain’t even know how the show supposed to flow Like I ain’t even know how the beat supposed to sound Like I ain’t even know where the notes supposed to go Like I ain’t even know how my soul’s supposed to feel Like I ain’t supposed to win, like I ain’t supposed to glow But you’ll never understand the way that I think If you ain’t grow up with it, sold dope before Oh, number one draft pick, number one draft pick Oh, he’s nice for a black guy, oh, he’s smart for a rapper Oh, that’s who he’s with? Oh, she’s cute for a black chick Oh, he’s actually cool, I went to school with him actually Actually, he could have has a masterpiece Now it’s just a f**in’ catastrophe Anyway, get fists on a fire Tell him send it over to Mastra